


Nothing is Certain But Death and Tax(idermy)

by AnnaofAza



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Harry Hart is an Odd Duck, Humor, M/M, Taxidermy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 11:31:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9383135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: “I do have some butterflies and beetles pinned up in the bathroom, as well as some poor souls who haven’t survived being hit with a vehicle in the attic.”Someone edges away from him.“But I suppose the thing that alarmed my boyfriend the most was the presence of Duke Cloppers, my childhood horse, in the pantry.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [futuredescending](https://archiveofourown.org/users/futuredescending/gifts).



> Inspired by futuredescending's [tumblr drabble](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7254013/chapters/16469890%20) and our discussions about Harry's taxidermy (I assure you that we're very sane people). 
> 
> (content warning for dead animals)

“Hello, I’m Harry.”

Voices chorus in bored unison: “Hi, Harry.”

Harry resists rolling his eyes. “And I'm here because my boyfriend thinks I have some sort of problem.”

He pauses, still in disbelief that he’s wasting a Saturday _here._ One woman’s eyes are focused squarely on the clock above the doorway. A man sighs, fanning himself lightly with one of the many pamphlets distributed on the chairs, all arranged in a circle. Harry himself faces the only doorway, ticking his eyes towards the window on his right every few minutes. The only interesting part of the meeting so far was trying to guess every person’s problem before they said anything, but now that it came down to the last person—Harry himself—he now had to say his piece, hopefully convince Eggsy that one session “cured” him, and get back to living his life in peace.

The moderator coughs politely. “What kind of problem, Harry? Don’t worry, nothing said here will leave this room.” Her eyes land on everyone in turn, including the family members and friends who had showed up for support for the introductory meeting.

Harry mentally sighs when Eggsy catches his eye, giving him a stern look. “I stuff and mount my past pets.”

He and Eggsy have an unspoken agreement to not discuss certain topics. V-Day, Eggsy’s life before Kingsman, Lee Unwin, a few of the more classified missions—those are neatly packed away, only to be acknowledged with a touch and an offer to make tea if something slipped past someone’s lips on a particularly draining or stressful day. Harry, after the horrible argument before Kentucky, had assumed Mr. Pickle had been tabled, too. The only time it had come up was during Eggsy and Harry’s first attempt to christen the bedroom, only for Eggsy to start screaming at the sight of his other past pets decorating the walls, completed with brass plaques that have their names inscribed on them.

“Not just Mr. Pickle?” Eggsy had asked, head on Harry’s chest and legs entangled with his. Both of them had migrated to the guest bedroom, painted in plain blue and only adorned with a small dresser, a nightstand, and a bed, which let out painful-sounding creaks every time they moved.  

“No,” Harry replied, thinking this was a rather odd sort of pillow talk. “Not just him.”

Eggsy closed his eyes, laying back with a soft, “I think I’m going to sleep in here when I move in.”

Harry had been too distracted at the notion of Eggsy actually residing in _his_ house to utter a retort.

Domestic bliss and spontaneous lovemaking sessions followed, and Harry put it out of his mind to focus on other things, such as Eggsy’s favorite ice cream flavor or the exact spot that made Eggsy keen loud enough to scandalize the neighbors.

This lasted them a good two weeks until one morning, when Eggsy, who had offered to get raspberry marmalade from the pantry, began screaming.    

Harry burst in, gun raised, only to find Eggsy pointing accusingly at a very tall, white horse with dappled legs.

“You have a _problem_ ,” Eggsy gasped. “We’re burying or cremating JB when his time comes—I _mean_ it—I’m not letting you put him in the other loo—”

Harry admits, sitting in this small room and seeing every horrified face, that this partly is his own fault: “accidentally” leaving his will out that stated that if he should pass before Eggsy, all of the stuffed animals shall go to him, as well as his own taxidermied body; reassuring Eggsy that only one part of it was true, then refusing to tell him which one it is; arranging the animals so that they all surrounded Eggsy's bed when he woke up on Halloween; and dropping hints that he had the bodies of poor creatures who had been the victims of hit-and-runs around the area in the attic.

So he had been a little juvenile, Harry admits, but hadn’t realized Eggsy would take it so far as to sign him up for a bloody _intervention_ class.

“How many pets did you have?” the moderator now asks, clearly trying to sound understanding and empathetic. The people around him seem genuinely invested in hearing about something other than gambling or smoking or hoarding—and well, Harry’s always liked a show.

He shrugs, smiling as if to say, _oh, silly me_. “Not very many. I’m afraid my boyfriend tends to exaggerate—”

“You have fifteen pets in our bedroom!” Eggsy protests, and the moderator—Harry briefly glances at her nametag: Pam—frowns at him, with a “Sir, please let him speak. He can communicate on his own. Now,” she continues, “all of these are your pets?”

“Well, not all of them,” Harry admits. “I do have some butterflies and beetles pinned up in the bathroom, as well as some poor souls who haven’t survived being hit with a vehicle in the attic.”

Someone edges away from him.

“But I suppose the thing that alarmed my boyfriend the most was the presence of Duke Cloppers, my childhood horse, in the pantry.”

The man beside him whispers, “What.”

“I do assure you, good sir, that Duke Cloppers is in excellent condition. I brush him every Sunday afternoon.” Harry pauses. “Besides, where else would I put him? I suppose outdoors, but with the unreliable London weather, I can’t do that to the poor fellow.” He shakes his head, more for drama than anything; the horrified stares are just too amusing not to take advantage of.

Eggsy points at him. “Do you see what I have to live with?” he moans. "A horse. A fucking _horse_ where we keep preservatives." 

Pam sighs, shaking her head. “Please, sir, calm down. You’re hindering the healing process by your criticisms. He’s taken a…bold step to come down here and admit his problem.” She nods at Harry. “But I can see your addiction has negatively impacted some of the people in your life.”

“Not really,” Harry glibly replies. “They just have to get used to it.”

“I look into the eyes of Mr. and Mrs. Moppet whenever we have sex in your room!”

“Sir, please, calm—”

“I tried offering them to my mates, but they all said no, and my little sister cried when she saw the dog in the loo—”

Pam has to raise her voice over the muffled snickering and muttering to say, “Sir, you have to stop interjecting; otherwise, you’ll be escorted out.”

When Eggsy falls silent, Harry says, quite blandly, “But really, I don't see a problem.”

Pam’s obviously struggling to both move on and sympathize. “All right,” she begins, with a bit of a forced smile. “Well, at least you did agree to come here, yes?”

“I'm only here because he promised me a lot of—”

“You really don't need to continue,” she quickly says, raising her left palm. “And have you…tried to get rid of them?”

The unamused stare that once made a member of the KGB shudder causes Pam to nod silently and move on to the next attendee.

* * *

The good news is that Harry’s no longer expected to attend Pam’s meetings, after a rumor about him being a serial killer during the third week caused the attendance to plunge to a record low.

The bad news is that Eggsy decided to sign him up with one of the members of the Kingsman psychology team for some sessions. No amount of threats or bribes—including combining the results of his baking with bedroom activities, which normally prove effective—can move Eggsy from his decision.

But it doesn’t mean he can’t get some amusement out of it.

“And what does this look like?”

Harry tilts his head, studying an ink blot on the small, white poster board. “A stuffed…hm, bulldog, I believe.”

Gaius, who looks as if he’d obviously drawn the short straw, patiently holds up another one, clipboard resting in his lap to jot down notes. “And this?”

 “A stuffed mongoose.”

“Sir, please take this seriously,” Gaius says, sounding both annoyed and on the verge of begging. His aged hands fold on his lap as he leans forward. “If not for me, for Galahad. He’s most concerned about your wellbeing.” It never fails, as the gossip goes, that if Harry’s being stubborn about something, to invoke the name of his lover.

“I apologize,” Harry says. “It looks more like a ferret.”

Gaius looks as if he’s about to either sigh or throw Harry out of the room. Either option will be fine. “All right, Galahad, since you do not wish to truly discuss your…obsession, we shall again try a few more exercises.”

Harry sighs, leaning back against the cushioned couch. He begins to wonder that if he can’t bribe Eggsy to let this matter alone, then he can surely blackmail. Withhold home-cooked meals? Allowing JB on the bed? Or simply, of course—

“Let’s move onto word associations, then,” Gaius quickly says, as if he’s aware of Harry’s thoughts. “What do you think of when I say…’red’?”

“Blood,” Harry replies, trying not to roll his eyes when Gaius dutifully writes that down. He’s a former field agent, for goodness’s sake. That one should have been obvious.

“All right, then…how about ‘sweet’?”

“Scones.”

“‘Toxic’?”

“Formaldehyde,” Harry declares.

Gaius puts down his clipboard to bury his face in his hands.  

Harry allows a few minutes for the man to gather himself before asking, “How do you feel about adding a sixteen-year-old bourbon to these proceedings?”

* * *

“Eggsy, we may have a problem,” Merlin warns, waving him over, the ever-present clipboard tucked underneath his arm. He looks solemn, with hints of amusement and exasperation warring on his lips.

Eggsy jogs down the hallway, glasses bouncing. “What? What? Is Harry okay?”

“He's fine, but...the therapist ran out on us.”

“This is the fifth one!” Eggsy groans, then demands, “What _happened_?”

“It's best if I show you,” Merlin sighs, leading him to a door, cracked slightly ajar.

“Oh, what did he ki—OH MY GOD, THEY'RE _EVERYWHERE_.”

“That really isn’t funny, Harry,” Eggsy protests, once Harry stops snickering at the mounted animals facing the doorway, expressions frozen in the purposely dim lighting. He’s definitely going to keep a copy of that particular video clip. “They won’t see you anymore!”

“Well, they have to, following a traumatic mission of some sort.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Eggsy sighs—he seems to be doing that a lot lately—and gestures to the kitchen table, where a brown paper parcel sits. Harry frowns, tilting his head to study it.

“I read online,” Eggsy begins, and Harry thinks, _oh no,_ “that you know how some people don’t go cold turkey right away? Like…how Jamal’s chewing nicotine gum to get off the cigarettes.” He then slides the package towards Harry, expression hopeful. “Maybe…this can help.”

Harry pulls out a stuffed terrier, with shiny, black eyes and neatly-combed, fake fur. The triangular ears perk up, and the pink velvet tongue peeks out of its smiling mouth. Around its neck is a cloth collar, tartan with a gold name tag dangling from a clasp. _Mr. Pickle_ is carved in graceful, looping script.

“This isn’t Mr. Pickle.”

Eggsy’s tone is patient and has a quiet earnestness to it that would be endearing in any other situation. “I know it isn't, but see? You can keep him on the nightstand instead of the loo, and—”

“Eggsy,” Harry says, very calmly, “it isn’t the same.”

He then proceeds to chuck the stuffed animal across the room. JB, who’s laying on the kitchen tiles, immediately leaps, snatching it in midair and trots towards the sitting room with it.

Frustration turns down the corners of Eggsy’s lips and wrinkle his brow. “ _Why_?” he asks, almost wearily.

“This is who I am, Eggsy!” Harry snaps. “I don’t have a bloody problem, and I certainly don’t need to be treated like a child who still sleeps with the light on! You agreed to move into my house as my—my partner, so you either take me and my family, or none at all!”

“ _I'm_ your family! Merlin and Roxy and Percival and Daisy and my mum—they’re your family, too! Not some...some dusty relics cluttering up your house masquerading as a fucking mausoleum!” Eggsy shouts back, then claps his hand over his mouth. “Harry, I'm sorry, I didn't m—”

Harry cuts him off with a cold “No, no. You did.”

Eggsy looks down at his trainers, hands trembling at his sides. His jaw works, on the verge of a retort or apology, Harry doesn’t know.

And in this terrible silence, neither say a word.

“I’m going to take a walk,” Harry says, heading for the doorway, past JB chewing thoughtfully on the little stuffed terrier. He lets the door slam shut behind him, then unlocks the garden shed, plucking out a shovel, a rucksack from his university days, and a radio receiver. There are no cars passing by at this late hour in Stanhope Mews, but Harry knows there must be some poor soul out there who’s been struck by one of them. They’re out there, and he’s going to find them.

* * *

Harry walks down the quiet streets of London, the soft crackling of the radio receiver alerting him to an dead animal in the road. He will be there before the slow-moving truck arrives, especially since he’s only a street away.  

He doesn’t carry away ones who look like they had been pets, but sometimes picks up strays, defined ribs poking out and fur torn from flea-bitten skin. He redresses them, makes them new, replaces the sunken eyes with glass marbles, and names them in his head. There’s no plaques to commemorate them, but Harry pays his respects all the same.

This one is a hit-and-run, and putting on heavy gloves, Harry approaches the fox with careful steps, making sure it’s dead before bending over it.

Its mouth hangs open, eyes still very wide, and there’s a distinct squish of the flattened body when he gingerly picks it up. Blood stains the orange fur, the pebbled asphalt, and the white lines underneath the streetlights, along with dark pink lumps and splatters. The small bones have been crushed under the weight of the car. It had been a quick death, albeit a messy one.

Eggsy refused to hit one of these, as Harry briefly, nonsensically, wonders if it’s the same one. Unlikely, but he kneels in the road for a while, looking at it.  

With a wave of sudden longing, he misses Mr. Pickle—misses the warmth in his lap on chilly nights, the little paws scrabbling against his legs when he came home, the tongue licking and licking the corner of Harry’s mouth, and the wagging tail on morning walks.

Harry had rebuilt Mr. Pickle and made him alive again. He doesn’t have to close his eyes to remember the exact texture of the wiry fur or how the eyes lifted up from underneath the shaggy lashes. He can simply open the bathroom door and look.

Harry can remember James’s easy flick of a gun, his mentor’s laugh, his mother’s ginger snaps, but pictures, footage, dusty boxes in the attic—they are not enough.

They never were.

 _Let go,_ his mind urges. _Let go._

He always had a hard time doing so.

* * *

When Harry comes home, he's empty-handed, the fox having slipped from his fingers and back onto the road.

Eggsy’s on the couch, fingers combing through the stuffed dog, unscathed except for heavy amounts of dog spit and a chewed folded ear. JB’s snoring softly, curled around Eggsy’s feet. After so many years, it’s nice to have a dog again, but JB is Eggsy’s. He can never replace Mr. Pickle, the squirming terrier plucked from a cage and who stared loyally up at Harry when a gun was placed in his hands.

Yet Mr. Pickle is gone, as are his other pets, friends, and family, diminishing throughout these years. Who could blame him for wanting to preserve what had been lost?

Eggsy’s knees are pulled to his chest, but come down in order to place his feet on the floor, half-standing when Harry goes to the loo and washes his hands of the dirt and grime from the street. He looks around at the butterflies and moths decorating the walls, remembering how his father taught him how to capture them in honey-laced traps or thinly-woven nets, then place them in jars of ethyl acetate. They’d spent hours poring over field texts and rearranging pins, Harry’s mum sighing over _her two_ _very unusual boys_ , but bending over the table to further study a brightly-colored butterfly.

He wonders if his father still does it, with his arthritic hands and watery eyes.

After drying his hands with a towel, Harry steps out of the room, folding a waiting Eggsy in an embrace. His chin rests on top of the soft hair that has traces of gel, and his arms circle Eggsy’s body, lean and muscled and steady. “I’m sorry,” he breathes.

“No, I am,” Eggsy murmurs. “I’m sorry, Harry. If it’s what you love…”

“I love _you_ ,” Harry replies. He then clears his throat. “I might take a trip to my father’s to see if he wants Duke Cloppers. He was fond of him. If you like, that is.”

Harry can see the questions dancing in his eyes, but Eggsy only nods, mustering up a grin. “That sounds nice. Do you think he’ll like me?”

“He will be a bit surprised,” Harry admits. “But I’m sure he will.”

Harry would like to take Eggsy to his old house, up through the airy rooms, the winding gardens, and the stables. They can ride horses through the beaten-down trails, stroll through the flowers that butterflies always liked to perch on, and sit at the kitchen table and fill in Harry’s father about their life together as tailors.

 And if he’s careful, Eggsy won’t wander into the basement. His father would not appreciate Eggsy trying to hack off the heads of his boa constrictor collection.


End file.
